


Late Night Visits

by SterlingBeryl



Category: Hamilton - Fandom
Genre: Alexander is dead, Angst, Mourning, Sad, Sad hopefully, Should really have included that earlier, really quiet angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:05:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SterlingBeryl/pseuds/SterlingBeryl
Summary: The necessary things yet to be said rise to the tip of his tongue then recede, ebbing like the tide.On July the 12th 1808, Thomas Jefferson returns to the grave of Alexander Hamilton.





	

"I'd just like to say, that your gravestone is most inconvenient."

The giant block of carved stone did not reply. It typically didn't reply, and neither did Thomas expect it to.

"It is currently... 3 hours into your death day." He chuckled quietly. He sat himself down in the thin grass in front of the grave, as he always did. Craned his head up to see the top of the stone, as he always did.

"Your epigraph should have written "Tiny in life, grander in death."

He could almost sense the ghost of Hamilton looming over him, grinning and remarking, "My my, good sir, how the tables have turned."

Thomas waved it away vigorously. "Oh shut up, you pompous little fool."

The pinpricks of light from the dark velvet sky blinked down at him. The graveyard was quiet, and the cold hung around him like a cloak. Thomas felt all the more reassured by the coldness. All the more likely the spectre of Hamilton haunted tonight, in this deathly cold where normal men do not attempt to breach.

"But enough of that. The question of your presence is irrelevant: I am determined to finish this bottle." Thomas pulled a bottle of wine from the picnic basket he always brought. A redundant and frivolous trifle, to be sure, but it gave an unspeakable comfort.

He poured a glass of of it, watched as the chilled liquid plummeted into the glass, ruby red in the dark.

"Its 1776, Hamilton. Fitting, no? To commemorate your exit of the stage by remembering your entrance."

He sipped the wine slowly. "Perhaps that's how funerals should go. Celebrate the life of someone at the close, at the end of their story. Certainly, I did MY part when it came down to it. Your bloody financial plan is still stuck in the system."

He gulped down the last of the glass. "Enough about politics. I refuse to elaborate on the matter. Such a shame that that was all we would talk about when you were alive. Such a broad spectrum of topics to disagree upon that we never explored."

He poured another glass. "Ah, thats not to say, that we had any problem finding conflict in anything! Many have told me that it would seem we were made for each other, in a purely platonic sense. If I were a poetic man, I would say we were made to clash and crash, claws unsheathed, into each other, and those fortunate and unfortunate souls to bear witness to the battle of our forces of our mental prowess..." He shakes his head, downs another glass. This time he feels the wine slip down his throat. Velvety, soothing, the coolness chasing away the fragments of memory, of sobriety.

"But I am not a poetic man, Alexander Hamilton."

He was faintly aware that the wine had loosened his tongue, but still the words spilled out. "I shall stick to the facts from here on. No use dwelling on the past and the bygones. Speaking of the past, your old friend Burr has become quite the deceiver. Perhaps that is the only thing we will ever find agreement on, and even that has come after your demise. In simple terms, which will not diminish the severity of the scandal, is his outrageously laughable attempt to annex Mexico."

He looked towards the trees, eyes unfocused but smiling. "Alexander, is that your laughter?"

If Alexander Hamilton were here, he made no sign. The trees quivered in the wind, the cold wind that wound around the branches, lingered in his hair, in his face, like cold hands.

Perhaps he remained silent to rid Thomas of satisfaction.

Thomas harrumphed. "Fiiine. It is no matter. I will see you in the recesses of my mind soon enough."

He paused, looking around as though to make sure no one bore witness to his confession. "It happens often enough every day."

The sky was colouring. He recognised its pale blushing, and knew what it meant.

Time was running out, and so many meaningless things yet to be said, rose to the tip of his tongue.

"Eliza!" He blurted. "Eliza is...well."

He shook his head. "No, she is more than well. She attacks life with a fervour and passion. She upholds it to the extreme. Of course, there are strained moments in life from time to time. That cannot be helped. But I-" he chose his words, picking them up like shards of broken glass.

"Angelica Hamilton will never be uncared for."

Enough said. Too much more left unsaid. “I know how it feels to be widowed.”

Yawning sky beckoned the dawn, the dark canvas now dusted with new light.

And for the first time, Thomas recognised the silent presence of loneliness. It loomed, almost crushingly, overhead. And in a new panic to end it, he quipped:

“You’re easier to talk to when you’re dead.” And immediately felt shame and guilt float up within him. He didn’t mean that.

But Time was flowing away from him, trickling through his fingers with alarming speed. So many meaningless things, given necessity by the occasion, that recede again, ebbing like the tides.

“Well, as all things must end, so must our reunion. “ Eloquence threatened to escape him, and he refused to let Alexander see him in the grips of alcohol.

He was faintly aware that the wine had loosened his tongue, yet there are things that must be said on the border of life and death.

“To a friend one will soon meet again, then…”

Winking stars alone bore witness to his madness.

**Author's Note:**

> Things to take note of: 
> 
> 1\. Angelica Hamilton was first daughter of Eliza and Alexander, who had a mental breakdown after the death of her older brother, Phillip. She never recovered.
> 
> 2\. Burr's intentions were never clear, but it was speculated he wanted to form an independent country around where mexico is today. Thomas Jefferson accused him of treason but he was found not guilty. So this is set sometime after 1807.
> 
> 3\. If you haven't already, type Alexander Hamilton Grave into google and look at how ginormous it is lol.
> 
> This is meant more to be an exploration into a death of a person and how it affects people that they may not necessarily be close to. I could also have named this fic unconventional mourning. :)


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